The samba had ended and soon, a bevy of beautiful people stepped out onto the dance floor, most of them vampires. Like many of the undead, Anaïs came into town to celebrate the nuptials of her late friend Christine’s only child, Andreas Kristopolous. More than a hundred and fifty years ago, he’d been christened her godson. The poor chap had exchanged vows with Eva Sambucco, one of New York City’s premier vampire hunters.
Instead of sipping fine champagne and dancing up a storm, the BPA agents the bride worked with stood guard around the room’s perimeter, their piercing stares alert and vigilant. Waiting for one of her kind to step out of line, they tried their best to appear inconspicuous, yet intimidating.
As if they could stop us if we decided to feast on their blood. Anaïs canvassed the room, hoping to locate the man she searched for amongst their ranks.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Anaïs’s neck rose on end. Her skin began to tingle as goose bumps broke out all over. She heard someone clear a throat behind her. It was a gruff, masculine vocalization. The rich, baritone sound shot through her system like the rumble of a drum. Instinctively, she whirled around as the man who had occupied her fantasies for the past few hours appeared before her. His broad shoulders and haunting blue gaze loomed over her, as if ready to burn a hole through her soulless outer shell.
“Would you care to dance?” the stranger asked, reaching to take hold of her delicate wrist. She offered her hand to him, in awe of the man’s handsome good looks and devilish smile. He lifted her flesh to his lips and planted a warm, gentle kiss. Anaïs felt his heated breath roll over her skin. It skated up her arm and over the valley of her bosom, causing her nipples to bead into tight pinpricks of desire. He glanced up, peering from left to right as if mimicking the shape of her dress’ heart-shaped bodice.
What the hell was I thinking wearing this red, strapless get-up? I might as well have glued a target to my ass and stamped “Fuck me” on my forehead.
She hated the fact that with one, simple kiss to her wrist, the man could make her breasts ache with need and her knees turn to gelatin. Yet instead of appearing cocky and arrogant, he gave off a shy, unpretentious vibe that made Anaïs feel relaxed. All warm and gooey inside. For that very reason, she’d let him live, albeit temporarily. Good thing, too. If he’d turned out to be another blustering browbeat, she would have had no other choice but to steal his life essence and drop his withering body in a dark corner of the room.
“You sure you can handle me? I’ve been known to beast it up on the dance floor,” Anaïs said, flashing a glimpse of her incisors.
The man shook his head, murmuring a slew of unintelligible words under his breath before he spoke out loud. “I’ve vanquished fiends more terrifying than you in my time. I promise, this’ll be a walk in the park.” She gathered from his accent that he had Eastern European roots.
Hmm. He knows what I am? Funny, he looks too studious to be one of BPA’s good-for-nothing thugs.
Soon the music changed and the band started to play a sexy, slow-tempo tango. It was the perfect tune to help reel in her prey. But before she’d even agreed to a dance, her companion reached out and grabbed hold of her waist, yanking her to his side. Pelvis to pelvis, their hips undulated to the sounds of the sensual, rhythmic staccato, matching the thrum of their beating hearts. Her partner had moves, easily keeping up with Anaïs’s unabashed attempt to ravage the dance floor.
“My lady, you must tell me your name.” Oliver pressed his lips to her earlobe. She shivered, while her fingers kneaded the short, wiry hairs at the base of his skull.
“Anaïs Moreau. I’m a friend of the groom’s mother,” she said, her voice breathy and a bit labored from their vigorous exercise. “And you?”
Her dance partner seemed none too eager to divulge his personal information. Instead, he leaned over Anaïs, forcing her to arch her back as his imposing form crowded her tiny, agile frame. Instinctively, she brought up her left leg, her thigh hugging his narrow waist. Gripping his bicep to maintain her balance, she felt the corded muscles underneath his tuxedo jacket. He was so close; she could feel the evidence of his desire flush against her sex. Anaïs moaned, unable to stifle her reaction as they swayed to the beat of the music.
“My name’s Oliver. The bride works for me,” he said as he left a trail of feather-light kisses to her bare neck and throat.
“Oliver? As in Oliver Polinski, the BPA’s counsel general?”
“Yes, is that a problem?” He set Anaïs back on her wobbly feet. Suddenly, she felt dizzy. Light-headed.
Fuck! My taste in men sucks.
Chapter Three
Playing Nice
Oliver felt the woman in his arms waver. Her body grew limp. It was surprising, given the sassy inner banter that seemed to swirl around in her mind. Only moments before, the vixen had her sights set on seduction. Now she could barely stand on her own two feet. Was she swooning from his stealthy moves on the dance floor or had he said or done something else to set her off kilter?
“Thirsty? Let’s have a seat and I’ll get you something to drink.” Lucky for Anaïs, blood flowed plentifully at the bar, one of the many perks of attending a wedding overrun with the undead. In fact, Eva had insisted that the acerbic red vintage be included on the menu. She refused to let her human guests fall victim to cocky bloodsuckers who couldn’t keep themselves from gorging on fellow partygoers.
Oliver set his dance partner down on a chair next to one of the square banquet tables, and headed for the bar. He acknowledged the bartender, Bobby DuBois, with a nod of his head. Another vampire.
God damn if the place isn’t crawling with leeches.
Trying to remain cordial, Oliver plastered a fake smile on his face. He ordered a shot of whiskey, along with a glass of plasma for the woman, then made his way back to her side. He handed her the concoction and took a seat to her left.
“Thanks. I didn’t mean to freak out on the dance floor,” she said. “But it’s not every day you meet the man responsible for your best friend’s murder.”
Oliver’s eyebrows sprang up in realization. “Christine Kristopolous? She was nothing more than an innocent bystander. Her death proved unfortunate, but my guys had no other choice. She’d gotten caught in the cross-fire of a madman on a senseless killing spree.”
According to reports, Christine’s death was an accident, although Oliver had been the one to order the hit. Surely that’s the way Anaïs must have heard it. Andreas’s mother had left a board meeting at the MET, New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was situated along busy
Fifth Avenue
in Manhattan, the same location where Oliver’s team had set up a sting. The sun began to set no more than an hour earlier and dusk had settled over the horizon. BPA agents were staked out in every nook and cranny of the street in search for Johann Rappel, the rogue vampire responsible for a handful of cannibalistic murders. With body parts strewn all over town, Oliver’s troops had been standing by, waiting to catch the killer unaware and end his worthless existence.
Anaïs took a slow sip from the cocktail glass, then gawked at him as if dumbfounded by the brutish, offhand comment he’d made. “How can you say that? From what I’ve heard, you gave your man permission to pull the trigger.”
Oliver stared at his companion, sensing the grief and turmoil swirling in the reflection from her golden brown orbs. Suddenly, guilt clawed its way up his belly and he frowned, ashamed at the obvious pain he’d caused her. He raised his hand, then tucked a stray red curl behind her ear. As soon as his fingers brushed the tender skin at her temple, he felt Anaïs quiver. Strange. Had he inadvertently provoked fear in the powerful vampire? It didn’t seem possible. Contempt maybe, but not fear. He hated to admit it, although deep down inside he hoped her body’s unsolicited reaction proved to be one of lusty anticipation. At least that way, he wouldn’t feel quite so awkward and alone.
Here I go again, showing my inexperience when it comes to the opposite sex.
“I’m sorry for your loss. From what I hear, Christine was quite the woman.”
Anaïs opened her mouth to speak, although before she could utter a single word, they were interrupted by the happy couple making the rounds from table to table in order to greet their invited guests. Andreas lifted Anaïs’s hand to his lips and gifted her with a gentle kiss, while Eva came around and put her arm around Oliver’s shoulder.
“I see you two have already become acquainted,” the huntress said, a crooked grin crinkling up the corners of her mouth. Oliver knew that look; she was up to no good. Then she turned to Anaïs. “It’s so nice to meet you. Andreas has told me a lot about you.”
“Thank you. I can see that you both love each other very much. I’m sure his mother would be pleased that he’s finally decided to settle down.”
“Well, Aunt Anaïs,” Andreas said with a reverent bow. “We should mingle with the rest of our family and friends. Are you planning to stay in town for a while? Eva and I will be headed off on our honeymoon after the reception. We’ve been working like mad the past few months, so we’re taking an extended, two-week holiday.”
Anaïs glanced in Oliver’s direction, and then she shot him a wink. Her sad, sullen expression had completely vanished. The smoldering look she flashed him made his heart race and his cock become partially erect. “I was planning to catch a flight back to Paris in the morning. But I could be persuaded to change my mind. I’ll keep you posted.”
There was a stilted silence between them once the bride and groom had moved on. It seemed as if both of them sensed the undeniable attraction, yet ignored it, like the proverbial elephant in the middle of the room. Oliver fidgeted in his chair, trying to think of something to say to break up the monotony. He knew he should simply walk away. No use in letting them push each other’s sexual buttons when nothing substantial would ever become of it. After all, the last thing he needed to do was consort with the enemy.
Unfortunately, Anaïs’s luscious red lips and tight, rosebud nipples, visible through the thin material of her dress, kept his ass stuck to the seat. For the first time, he understood how men could be enthralled by the ethereal beauty and captivating charm of the undead. This one had certainly caught him off guard. She left him helpless under her spell. Oliver spent the last two decades planning covert ops and ordering the cutthroat deaths of countless vampires. Yet with Anaïs, all he yearned to do was cup her breasts in his hands, and watch those pouty lips move up and down his rigid shaft.
Oliver felt his cock grow painfully hard, the proof of his arousal once again noticeable through his fitted trousers. Suddenly, his face grew warm with embarrassment as heat snaked its way up his cheeks. Anaïs’s eyes skimmed over his appearance, alternately moving between his crotch and what he could only assume was a beet red face. She giggled softly, then took his hand and pulled him to his feet.
“Come on, lover boy. Let’s go dance before someone catches wind of the blood rushing through your veins and sees it as an invitation to dine.”
This time, the music was contemporary – a slow, sensual Luther Vandross ballad.
Now this is more my style, Anaïs whispered in her mind.
Soon their limber bodies were molded together as one. With each graceful step, they glided seamlessly across the polished wood floor from one end to the other. Their nimble feet barely touched the ground. Elegant and flowing, they appeared to be floating, like two translucent spirits that had swept through the ballroom, trying their best to look inconspicuous. Oliver had never been one to draw attention to himself. Yet how could anyone disregard the beauty at his side? She was impossible to miss.
Their torsos were pressed achingly close, so much so that he could feel her hardened mounds against the broad muscles of his chest. Anaïs’s hot breath skirted down his neck. With the vivacious beauty so near, Oliver didn’t know quite what to do or say. Nervous as hell, he felt a pool of sweat form along his spine as they danced, cheek to cheek. His cock, however, seemed totally at ease, wantonly rubbing against her inner thigh. The arm he kept draped over the vampire’s back itched to move lower, eager to graze the luscious curves of her ass. Although he hesitated, his lack of finesse when it came to women stopped him dead in his tracks.
Keeping his desire on a tight leash, Oliver fisted his hand in the swath of material that had gathered in the natural curve of her spine. He leaned in, his utterance raw and gruff. “So you like Luther Vandross?” he asked, trying to make casual conversation. “He’s one of my favorites, as well.”
All of a sudden, Anaïs’s movements came to a standstill. She jerked her head back and cocked it to one side as if perplexed. She squinted, her gaze narrowing in on Oliver. At the same time, her pliant curves became stiff and rigid in his arms. “How did you know that? I never…”
“I…um,” Oliver fumbled with the words on the tip of his tongue. “I can read–”
Before he could finish the sentence, Anaïs’s raised her hand in the air, and with a swift turn of the wrist, slapped him square across the jaw. The sting felt like a million bees swarming over his flesh.
“You bastard! You’ve been reading my mind this whole time, haven’t you?” Anaïs’s irritated scowl proved that she couldn’t possibly do the same. Good thing, too. Oliver didn’t need a sexy bloodsucker trying to pick his brain. With her hands on her hips, she simply strutted away, leaving him stranded in the middle of the dance floor with a roomful of vampires ready to pounce.
Chapter Four
The Threat
It was well past three in the morning by the time Anaïs made it upstairs to her suite at the Four Seasons Hotel. After leaving the reception, she’d taken some time to search for sustenance, although nothing had piqued her thirst. Then, she made a pit stop to the hotel bar and downed a couple of cocktails. Vampires didn’t need to eat or drink, but after her confrontation with Oliver, she’d hoped the alcohol would help calm her rattled nerves. Eventually, the bartender announced it was last call and Anaïs had no alternative but to head upstairs.
As she approached her room, thoughts of the BPA’s counsel general still flashed through her mind. She wanted to strangle him for delving into the depths of her mind without permission. Anaïs didn’t share that specific talent and therefore, couldn’t return the favor. In fact, Oliver Polinksi had done more than read her thoughts. He’d left her feeling turned her on and pissed her off all at the same time, which was a first. So preoccupied, she hadn’t noticed that the door to her suite had been set ajar, as if it had been tampered with. Had someone snuck into her private quarters?
Hesitant to shove open the door on the off chance that the burglars still lie in wait, Anaïs peered inside through a slight crack in the frame. She could see the room was in shambles. Drawers full of clothing had been emptied and strewn about haphazardly. The expensive art lithographs on the walls had been torn off, shredded into pieces, and littered across the rug’s surface. With her ear plastered to the wood, she listened for voices or the sound of movement, anything that would tell her if she needed to enter the room with fangs blazing. But she heard nothing. No one.
Anaïs sighed, then pushed open the door and crossed the threshold. A major clean-up job hadn’t been on her agenda for the evening. Neither had spending the night alone without a man to warm her bed and satisfy her need for sustenance. Yet here she stood. Unfortunately, Oliver Polinski had screwed up her plans.
Oh hell! I’ve got nothing better to do. I might as well get started straightening up the place.
Picking up blankets from the floor and tossing pillows onto a nearby chair, Anaïs noticed a small photograph that remained half-hidden underneath the upturned bedding.
Hmm. Where had that come from?
She swooped it up off the ground and examined it more closely. Suddenly, her eyes shot open; her stomach heaved at the horrific scene depicted in the image. A scantily-clad woman, a vampire as evidenced by the sharp incisor protruding from the left side of her cheek, lay discarded by a dumpster in what appear
ed to be a dark, deserted New York City alley. Her neck had been broken, twisted at an awkward angle with one of the frail collar bones sticking out of the skin. The bustier she wore seemed to be torn in shreds, her bosom flayed open by a jagged gouge that had been cut against the grain from breastbone to rib cage. Her heart was ripped from her body, and set on top of her distended abdomen.
The gut-wrenching spectacle caused Anaïs to double over into a ball on the floor, overcome with nausea and utter disgust. Sure, she’d killed victims in the heat of the moment, but nothing quite like this. If she’d feasted earlier, the contents of her stomach would no doubt cover the rug in a blanket of blood.
Unable to control her emotions, Anaïs tossed the photograph on the bed and threw herself onto the mattress in a heap. She sobbed into her trembling hands. Blood-streaked tears streamed down her cheeks and stained her red satin gown. All alone in a strange town, she felt lost. The only people she trusted were Andreas and his father, Aristotle, one of whom was likely on an airplane halfway across the globe. She had to tell them that a madman had somehow gained access to her room. But first, she needed to stop and think. Who could be responsible for such masochistic cruelty? And why?
Anaïs only knew one man sick enough to mutilate and torture a female with such callous precision. It was the same man who’d stalked her on and off for more than a century. Did he have the audacity to follow her across the Atlantic? She sure as hell wouldn’t put it past him. The psycho had done everything from sending her bouquets of dead, wilted flowers to decapitating a kitten and leaving its severed head on her front porch. But generally, he left a calling card, some way of letting her know that he was close. Anaïs stood up and searched the bed. Then, she snatched the photograph hidden between the sheets, and turned it over to find a messy, handwritten inscription on the back.
Blood and Bondage Page 2